When our two souls stand up erect
and strong,Face to face, silent, drawing
nigh and nigher,Until the lengthening wings break
into fireAt either curvèd
point,---what bitter wrongCan the earth do to us, that we
should not longBe here contented? Think! In
mounting higher,The angels would press on us and aspireTo drop some golden orb of
perfect songInto our deep, dear silence. Let
us stayRather on earth,
Belovèd,---where the unfitContrarious moods of men recoil awayAnd isolate pure spirits, and permitA place to stand and love in for
a day,With darkness and the death-hour
rounding it.